She comes at a gallop, scurrying past your feet. One hop onto the covered toilet; another, onto the marble counter. She stops, her two striped forepaws into the sink as her head bends downward, to drink.
Whether the faucet is still running, or not, makes no difference. She's not afraid of getting wet.
Sometimes, when the sink isn't running, when there's no water to be found, she still can be found in the sink. One time, I entered the ensuite bathroom, my bathroom, to find her curled up, asleep in the empty basin.
It was adorable, something that both DW and I failed to discourage. Why would we? She was doing no harm.
Some days, the mere sound of the toilet flushing would bring her bounding to the room. Those humans would be turning on the faucet to wash their hands. She would try to poke her head between our hands, to get at that running water. Either to play or to drink. That source of liquid was hers.
And then it happened. She beat me into the sink, before I could turn the taps and cause the water to flow. Before there was any water running from the faucet, she had her entire body in the sink. She looked me in the eyes, as if to say, "Get a load of this."
And then she pissed in the sink.
The sound of liquid, running down the drain. "I've made my own running water," she seemed to say.
My first reaction was one of horror and shock. "How dare you?" I exclaimed.
There are worse things that can happen. Her litter box was another two floors below us. She could have peed in my bedroom, in a planter. On the kids' beds.
She hopped out. I turned on the taps, and her business was done.
She does it all the time now, when I'm at the sink. I've put toothpaste on my toothbrush, was about to add a little water to the mix, and she's there, like a flash, interrupting me. It's worse when I'm about to spit into the sink, and as though coming out of high warp, she suddenly appears.
The sound of water, running down the drain, with no faucet flowing.